


On A Roll

by allisonadair



Series: On A Roll [1]
Category: 1960 - Fandom
Genre: F/M, Italian Mafia, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-18
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-13 07:41:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29523111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allisonadair/pseuds/allisonadair
Summary: Two rival Mafia families make a bet, a big one. Their kids, oblivious. Their rivalry is nothing compared to their love, so they thought.
Relationships: Boy/Girl
Series: On A Roll [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2168886





	On A Roll

I was thirteen when my sister, Bia died. I remember worrying about her at school, having a dreadful feeling in the pit of my stomach that she wasn’t alright. I spent every hour of my day in the nurse's office, hoping my mother would remove me from school so that I could check on her. Bia was sick that day, and she stayed home. 

I remember walking home, my feet practically tripping over each other because of my speed. 

I just had a feeling.

By the time I was home, there were already ambulances and fire trucks. There were police men, even though my father hated the feds. 

I remember seeing my little sister’s body being carried out of our house, a yellow tag latched around her wrist like she was just a number. Like she was just another person. 

My body stilled, and I couldn’t speak as my father wrapped his arms around me in silence. My mother cried out, and I watched her walk alongside Bia in a distressed manner. 

I hated it. 

Although it was ultimately my mother’s loss, I couldn’t help but think about myself. 

Who am I going to talk to late at night? 

Who will help me with my homework?

I knew it was selfish, and horrible, but I still worried about myself. And instead of staying with my family I ran off. To a small road near our house, a busy one. 

And although it was empty this time of day, the rush of laying down in the middle of it made me forget. 

And by now it was night. 

I was lying down in the middle of the road when I realized how beautiful the sky was, but there were no stars; A mask of clouds blocking out each and every star like a tear drop you wipe off the cheek of your mother. Or the way a car could race by and wipe my existence off the face of the earth, as if I was never there. 

And I felt guilty for not crying, for not making a fuss along with my parents.   
So that night I picked at my skin, and starved myself from sleep. I dressed in large baggy clothing and rarely stood. I bit my nails until blood dripped from my fingers and I drank more water than the ocean could hold. I layed in bed with peeled lips and pondered on how I got here. How it got so bad, so quickly. 

And I never found the answer. My heart broke, and I sunk lower into my frigid bed sheets. I had no idea what to do with myself, and the numbness was frustrating. 

I got up, and I opened my window. Feeling the cold air reminded me that I was alive. Truthfully, I needed to talk to Bia, but I couldn’t. Ever. 

So I went to the only thing that I knew would never leave. I whispered to her, the universe, and I told her everything that was sitting on my mind. 

Though it took her a while to respond. 

I sat with my legs dangling outside my window for hours, and maybe I was sleep deprived, in fact I probably was. Or maybe the wind was blowing a bit too hard against my home, but she whispered back. 

And though I was sure that my heart was broken inside of me, I knew that I was not only sleep deprived. I was not crazy.

The night was quiet, and for a single moment during my life, I was okay. 

Six Years Later; 1969

I sit quietly, listening to the pastor rant on about his anti-suicide nonsense. I can’t help but cackle at the phrase “Suicide Prevention” because there is no stopping someone who doesn’t want to be here from leaving. 

I learned that when Bia died. 

“Pay attention, Ida.” My mom rests a hand on my knee, breaking me out of a sort of trance. I pick at the skin above my nails. 

“This is such bullshit.” I whisper. 

“Watch your mouth.” She snaps. “We’re in church.” I roll my eyes.  
I stopped going to church after Bia’s death, and I didn’t begin to go again until recently. I hate it. 

“It will hurt, and hurt, and then one day it won’t.” Pastor Dann says quietly. I stop picking at my skin for a minute, reflecting on those words. 

It will hurt, and hurt, and then one day it won’t.

I can’t help but ask myself how one’s pain just disappears. 

And though I’ve watched it happen right before my eyes, I still do not believe in the absence of depression, nor sadness. It is always there, and it will always be there. 

Once the sermon was finished, my family and I traveled about thirty minutes north of New York to eat at a fancy restaurant that my dad’s boss recommended. And by boss, I mean father. 

It was nearly thirty degrees out, and my mother stopped to make conversation with a few friends outside the restaurant. It was snowing, and my fingers were starting to go numb. 

Everything was covered in snow, and it kept falling softly without a sound. Nothing I do in this moment could stop each drifting snowflake from falling. 

And as it falls, snow traps you in a small, quiet, beautiful bubble. It disconnects you from every soul. Except your own. 

It’s when you feel everything, despite being alone with yourself. It’s when your thoughts and emotions come crashing down on you, yet they don’t disturb the iridescent peace. Somehow they add to it. 

In moments like these, snow on a rooftop is where you find nothing but yourself. 

“Ida.” My mother’s voice brings me back to reality, and I glance at her. “We’re going inside, darling.” She says. I nod, following the rest of my family inside. 

We were seated at a large booth.   
I sat across from my brother, Finn, and my parents sat together across from Mia. 

My parents make quiet conversation, while my siblings and I sit in silence. There was a sort of tension between us. A sort of tension that’s unexplainable. 

We’d known my parents were struggling with their marriage long before they’d shown it. Now, they argue at home. They argue in public. Anywhere they can, they argue. 

We never said it to each other, but we all just knew. 

After the waitress put our order in, our booth was silent. We were the only family who wasn’t smiling, and it made me insecure. 

I notice a small rocking chair in the corner of a restaurant, and I watch as the heater blows it back and forth. If the sound of the heater wasn’t so loud, you might have thought the place was haunted. 

My father and mother were having a hushed conversation with their hands over their mouths, and I assumed it was business issues. Finn began to ask mother what was wrong, but I shushed him before he could say anything more. 

We sat in silence as we ate, the only noise coming from our table being the sound of our forks clanging against our plates.

It was deafening. 

There are times I wonder if other families do this. Do they sit in silence at their homes, and in public? Do they attend church to make their publicity in good favor? Do they have hushed conversations and never tell a soul about any of them? 

Surely not. Surely we are the only family who is as fucked up as this. 

“I spilt my drink.” Finn wailed. He’d always been scared of dad, even when he was a toddler. Any time he needed something, or felt that he did something wrong, he’d go to mother. 

“Grab a napkin, and go get cleaned up.” My mother ushered him away from her side and scooted away from my father. The look on his face made me sick to my stomach, and I’m sure we all knew what he was about to say. 

“Stupid fucking kid.” He bellows. I could feel the stares of the people around us, and a wave of crimson crept over my face. 

We’re all “stupid fucking kids” to my dad. 

But Bia wasn’t.

She was his favorite. 

She was mom’s favorite. 

She was our favorite.

<->

I moved through the grass steadily, paying no attention to the strange noises bubbling from the trees. 

My friend Abner had asked me to meet him near the park, and I couldn’t sneak out of the front gates, so I went through the woods.

By now it’s normal that I sneak out four to five times a week. With parents like mine, how could you not?

“Hey.” I say flatly, sitting beside him on a bench. He mumbles something to acknowledge my presence. 

Abner and I often sit in silence, mostly because the both of us are tired of talking. 

“How was church?” His voice was blank, and his eyes were sunken. 

“Awful.” I reply. He nods. 

We spoke for a bit before he offered me some alcohol, but I declined. 

Abner lit a cigarette and held it close to his mouth. “Why don’t you drink, Ida?” He asks. Per usual, I actually consider my next words carefully. 

I had already exposed myself enough over the years. There was no point in lying.

“I’m scared of getting addicted.” 

“Why are you scared of that?”

“It numbs pain,” I replied quietly. “I think if it numbs for a moment, it’s capable of pulling me in so that it numbs for a lifetime.” 

We sit in silence for the next few minutes.

Silence is so deafening.

“Do you remember when we faked dating to ward off the football guys?” He says suddenly. I smile in memory. 

“Yea.”

“Wasn’t it nice to feel wanted?” He asked into the silence. “Even if it was only for a small amount of time?” 

“And if it wasn’t real?” My voice said into the silence, scrutinising me. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. 

“It was nice, even if it wasn’t real.” 

After nearly an hour of going back and forth with memories and silence, he decides to go home. I sit alone, staring at the trunk of a tree straight across from the bench. 

As it begins to snow, and the air becomes decidedly colder, I make my way away from the bench and towards the woods. It was oddly silent this time around, and my stomach flipped around with an eerie feeling that someone may be following me.  
As I quicken my pace, a rustle in the bushes makes my fingers shift to the pocket knife in my shoe. Dad always told me to carry one, especially at night. 

Another rustle makes me jump, and now I’m practically jogging. 

Within seconds of my pace quickening, I’m cut off by a large figure. I step back, my eyes hazy from knocking them into the figures body. 

“Watch where you’re going.” A voice bellows. The voice sounded familiar, but I couldn’t quite place my finger on it. I couldn’t make an outline of their face in this light, so I moved to the side a few feet. 

Arlen Jourdain. 

My father is enemies with Aidan Jourdain, his father. When I was young, my father instilled into me not to go near the Jourdains. We had a few rules.

Don’t speak to them. 

Don’t look at them. 

Don’t fall in love with them. 

I pay close attention to his body movement as I bring out my pocket knife slowly. 

“I’ll kill you, Jourdain.” I hiss, an unforgiving tone behind my voice. He had attempted to bully me until I graduated. He’s two years older than me, and still finds amusement in making fun of high schoolers. 

“If you want to seem threatening, don’t go straight for death. Describe how you’ll torture me, the way you’ll destroy everything that I stand for.” He muttered. My blood boils. 

“You know better than to pull a knife on a Jourdain, pretty girl.” He moves back into the dark, and the sound of a gun cocking makes my knees weak. 

“You should have thought about that before you followed me home in the dark, in the woods.” I whisper shakily. 

“I wasn’t following you. In fact, I was in front of you. You were following me.” He says confidently. There was no coming back from that. 

“This is my property, Jourdain.”

“It’s your father’s.”

“My father hates you.” He makes a clicking noise with his tongue, and I watch his elbow extend as he slides his gun beneath his shirt. I haven’t seen him in ages, and I can’t help but notice how different he looks. 

He’s taller, and his hair has grown a bit longer. His jawline is more defined, although that may just be a glare from the moonlight. 

“Run along, princess.” He says coldly. It reminds me of how much I hate him. 

“Don’t call me princess.” The snow picks up, and the wind whips my hair around my neck. I shiver, but he shows no signs of being cold. 

None.

It’s almost strange, the lack of reaction he possesses. 

“You’d better leave by morning. My father will have you killed if he finds out you spoke to me.” I begin walking away. 

For some strange reason, I don’t want him to get into any trouble. I’d rather him get home safe than watch him be murdered by my father and a war break out. 

Jourdain’s and Andriulli’s haven't gotten along since before I was born, when my father was nearly twenty three years old. 

My father’s parents were well known in New Jersey. They had a good reputation with the people around town, and never got into any trouble. They were involved with crime business, and brought my dad into it once he turned eighteen. He wanted to follow in his father’s footsteps. 

My father got into a fight with Aidan Jourdain, and as revenge Aidan burnt down his house. His parents burnt alive, and their ashes were never uncovered. His siblings too. 

He hates Aidan. 

He hates him so much, that he’s promised to kill everyone in his family if a Jourdain even steps foot on his property. 

Which is why I let Arlen go. 

I hate murder. 

Five years later my dad moved to New York, and met my mom. 

Thus the story began.

<->

I sit in silence, staring at the wall across from my bed. It’s now five in the morning, and I slept a total of three hours about forty eight hours ago. 

Pale face, sunken eyes, boney cheeks. 

You’d think I was dying if I wasn’t so young. 

People love to romanticize the beauty of dying. They say your swollen eyes and your insomnia looks and feels like the moonlight during the quiet hours of the night. They say the alcohol that slips down your throat makes you look intoxicatingly ethereal as you collapse onto yourself. 

Only I don’t drink. I just collapse onto myself under the influence of myself. 

They say the tears falling from your cheeks are liquids from a river, though we know they are tears of tremor and agony.   
There is absolutely nothing that is beautiful about dying. I fear that those who speak about dying have never witnessed it truly. 

It is so hard seeing your grave dug directly in front of you, and knowing there is nothing you can do to stop it. 

As my fingertips run cold and my vision starts to blur. The rapid wind presses against me as I begin to sink into the frosted lake. As I take my last breath and close my eyes, I hope my mother will not fill with despair as she hears the news that I am no longer alive. 

I jolt awake at the sudden noise erupting from outside. 

Wolves. 

I get up slowly, looking out my window at the five wolves howling for each other just outside of the woods. 

It’s beautiful. 

I watch as they lean their heads up, and a loud howl echoes throughout the gates of our community. It fills me with a sense of comfort.

And although they can be so deadly, they are so beautiful at the same time. 

Something to imagine; 

A young woman with a big heart. She cries for characters in movies, for the animals that died. And for the trees that have lost their leaves. As she grew older, she began to feel bad for less. 

Watching her family fall apart no longer phased her. 

The wolves slowly cleared in their pack, un-worried of their surroundings. I wish to be that calm.


End file.
